


wake up in tokyo, feel like a lost soul

by yorus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Exes to Lovers, M/M, Suna Rintarou-centric, sunaosa week day 1- free day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yorus/pseuds/yorus
Summary: The distance from Tokyo to Osaka is 514 kilometers. 6 hours and 18 minutes by car, 2 hours and 22 minutes by train. The distance from Tokyo to Osaka is the length of Rintarou’s heartstrings.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 14
Kudos: 128
Collections: SunaOsa, SunaOsa Week 2020, stories that touched me





	wake up in tokyo, feel like a lost soul

The distance from Tokyo to Osaka is 514 kilometers. 6 hours and 18 minutes by car, 2 hours and 22 minutes by train. The distance from Tokyo to Osaka is the length of Rintarou’s heartstrings.

It stretches over cities and expressways, over a section of the Ise Bay, and if you followed it closely, it would lead you right to the door of Onigiri Miya. 

But Rin doesn’t look too closely at his heart.

* * *

He opens his eyes to his alarm, meeting the cool glare of morning, and immediately shuts them again. He unconsciously curls around the memory of a warmer body besides him and is instead met with coldness, before he remembers that Osamu is no longer here to have impromptu sleepovers, no pair of grey eyes looking back at him, and no longer Rin’s. So therefore it is probably useless to be thinking these things, but he does so most mornings anyways. 

The second time he opens his eyes, roughly five minutes later, he brings himself to get up and start his routine. Routine is constant. Too constant. It makes the days bleed together, and he is no longer able to distinguish how long it’s been since he was in Tokyo. Wake up, breakfast, go on run, go back home, go to practice, come back home, dinner, shower, sleep. It goes like this, day after day, sunrise through sunset. 

This is not to say he doesn’t _like_ it here. He appreciates his teammates and the brief amount of chaos they bring, he is grateful to be in a city he’s comfortable with, to be able to familiarize himself with the sight of looming buildings and the Skytree again. 

At night, he thinks of time here as categorized into two distinct sections. Before and after. Before the Absence of Miya Osamu and After the Absence of Miya Osamu.

The Before encompasses a time before Tokyo, encompasses the nostalgic afternoons of high school, split popsicles, lazy walks home, and first kisses. The times when Rintarou could freely bother Osamu at 1am and ask, _dude, duo with me, I can't stand soloq right now_ , and be sure he’d receive a _yeah sure_ back. It holds the moments where Osamu trusted him enough to tell Rin of his culinary dreams, as if Rin could ever forget about Osamu’s fascination with food, and the moments they talked long into the night, about the stars, about the future, about _isn’t it crazy how high school is already over?_

This is how the subject of Tokyo was brought up, in Rintarou’s backyard, with his head in Osamu’s lap, gazing up at the sky above. The letter with the EJP Raijin letterhead at the top of it had burned in his pocket, an insistent reminder of the years to come. It was a heavy choice, one that meant distance and effort and maybe having to let go of some things Rin was not ready to say goodbye to just yet. 

Broad hands and calloused fingers had carded carefully through Rintarou’s hair, ever patient and coaxing. He had imagined Osamu’s lilting voice saying, _what is it Rin, y’can tell me_ , even though Osamu never verbalized it. 

Eventually, Rintarou reached inside his pocket, drew the letter out, and unfolded it slowly. He held it above and close to his face, kept his eyes on the printed words as he mumbled _I might leave for Tokyo in the fall._ He felt Osamu’s gaze sweeping over him and focusing on the simple but not insignificant piece of paper. The ensuing silence was only a few seconds long as Osamu processed the information, but it had seemed too long. _Holy shit Rin, EJP is division one,_ Osamu had finally said. Rin only answered with a nod. He knew. _Y’better go, I’m excited for ya_ , Osamu continued. He felt movement in the air as Osamu shifted, and then his forehead was peppered with soft kisses. 

_Don’ make that face Rinrin, we’ll be okay._ And so Rintarou had let his worries dissipate, along with the crease between brows he hadn’t even realized he’d scrunched together. 

In the Before, things were okay, at first. His phone lit up every night with a call, and he curled up on his too lonely bed and filled it with the sound of Osamu’s voice. It had wrapped around him like a warm blanket, soft and probably detergent smelling. Kind of exactly like the one he used when he slept over at Osamu’s when home felt too empty. 

But it’s hard to talk to someone so far away when he had grown too used to the immediate physicality of touch and instant-ness. He became painfully aware of their expanding, separate responsibilities. Busy with the shop, busy with practice, and even though he knew they supported each other, it was hard. 

Calling every night became arduous. He is tired every night. A call every day turns into every other day, turns into a rare occasion. Telling someone about his day does not take away the deep weariness from his bones and body. 

An _I miss you_ text comes back with _I miss you too_ , and nothing else. 

Eventually it all slipped away. It was the first time in weeks that they’ve heard each other’s voices, something that seemed to happen all too frequently. They talked until every word has been wrung out, and sleep knocked on his eyelids. When Osamu’s voice came through the speakers again, it cracked and said _Rintarou_. Rintarou had sat up straight in his bed, back against the wall. Osamu rarely sounded like _that._

 _Let’s...end this. I know we’re both busy and worried about other things, and ya probably don’t need me, so let’s end this._ Osamu’s words had come out wobbly and Rin had a fleeting, fond thought about how the idiot tried to keep his voice even for him, but it was gone quickly and he was left to weigh the sentences and the silence. 

There are a thousand choices Rintarou could’ve picked. He could’ve said fuck practice tomorrow and went to Osaka right then and there, he could’ve fought, could’ve argued back, could’ve told him to stay, or he could’ve not done any of those things and just quietly accepted what was laid out before him.

 _Okay. Please take care._ Is all Rin said. _I miss you_. The last part is whispered into the phone like a secret, like if he had said it any louder he would have to come to terms with the situation.

The quiet static was the only indication Rin got that told him neither of them had hung up. There was a loud, snotty sniffle, and Rin didn’t know whether to laugh miserably or cry. Osamu has always been the uglier crier.

 _I love ya,_ is all Osamu had said _,_ and the line had gone dead. 

Rin was left with the aftermath again, reeling. But he was so, so exhausted, as if he had just been through the spin cycle in his washing machine five times over. There was no room to dissect parting words. 

He thought of a night in Hyogo, in his backyard, stars stretched above them, and about distance and effort and having to let go of some things he was not ready to say goodbye to just yet.

_Don’ make that face Rinrin, we’ll be okay._

* * *

The After is characterized by a lot of rationalizing to himself and possibly overanalyzing. That he saw it coming, that it was only natural. 

He asks himself, _does it feel good to be right, Rintarou? Does it?_

No, for once, it doesn’t.

Rintarou presses the base of his palms to his eyes with a sigh, and tries to stop seeing Osamu in his surroundings. 

When his phone lights up at night and he sees Osamu’s name in his notifs, he cannot stop himself from hoping that it’s for him, even though it’s from the old Inarizaki group chat. He supposes they never _really_ quit talking. Rintarou has too many closely cropped, embarrassing photos of Osamu to not send them in retaliation to whatever’s happening in the chat, and Osamu always fails to remember that he has them. At the very least, that hasn’t changed. 

Drifting apart is normal. He is fine. 

The sun rises and sets. The Skytree lights up at night. Rintarou blocks five spikes at practice and gets dinner with his teammates, and does not think about what it would be like if Osamu had cooked it instead.

He holds his phone close to his face under the covers and scrolls past countless pictures of Osamu and him together while searching for a specific meme. Osamu and Rinatarou. Rintarou and Osamu. He rolls over onto his chest to squash the building weight of longing. 

He is fine. 

Rintarou really isn’t sure how _to_ feel. On some days, it feels as if he is standing still and the world merely cycles past. He does things, but doesn’t necessarily recall doing them in much detail. How does he describe the feeling of emptiness so acute it’s shaped like a specific person, and the best he can do is learn to live with it? 

Too often, he thinks of their last conversation. It is unfair, how he cannot let go even when his mind tells him to do so, that he must. How cruel is it that the last thing Osamu had said to him was _I love ya_? How cruel is it that Rin has to tear open his own heart in the aftermath and search for answers? He supposes there is like, and really like, and extremely like, but to love? It sounds foreign in his brain, and yet Osamu had offered it so surely that night. He is aware that such things are unfortunately unquantifiable, that there is no real measure of like versus love and all of the in between, but he wishes there was, for the sole purpose to know like Osamu had known. 

He looks for love not in the moments they had together, but rather in the spaces they missed and in the places they could have occupied. The parts of Tokyo that Rintarou never got to show Osamu, side streets and small izakayas where they could sit cramped together, restaurants where you can see them cook your food, and Rin’s own apartment, with a too large bed. He thinks of the things they have yet to do, and how he wouldn’t want to do them with anyone else. 

Rintarou decides that love is not something that makes itself known until it’s almost gone, that it is not only the sum of their memories, but also the ones they have yet to make. He thinks love is in the way he misses him. It’s in the way he still reaches for his phone at night, even though he knows there won’t be any calls coming through, in the way he continues to take pictures of his food even if he does not send any.

Rintarou knows he loves Osamu back, but he’s not sure if it’s much too late or even if it’s too early to reach out. Maybe he should let the space between them breathe. _How funny_ , he thinks. The space between them was already several hundred kilometers too big, but it still needs room to breathe.

* * *

He’s heard of something called the paradox of choice before. In passing, or maybe in some video. He’s not quite sure if it fully applies, but Rin thinks of it like this:

They had too many choices, so many ways things could’ve gone. Things in general, not really just that last phone call. And ultimately they both made choices, ones that resulted in what they are now. Or rather, aren’t. And although this is the outcome he had wanted at the time, it doesn’t feel that way anymore. It feels like regret on his tongue, bitter and undercooked. His mouth shapes around the words he couldn’t say before, and has no chance to say now, and so he swallows around them and they go down his throat like fish bones, prickly and not at all belonging inside. 

He knows Osamu made choices too, but there is no way of knowing if he felt the same disappointment. Maybe he had left some things unsaid too, and maybe he didn’t. What if _I love ya_ was Osamu’s release, instead?

If Rin had the answers, maybe he would say they’d blame themselves. But he doesn’t, and in the end, there is a singular bed, with a singular inhabitant, and no one to blame other than himself. 

* * *

At match point of set five, Rin wipes the gross sweat off his face again, and levels his gaze across the net. He only really knows two of the Falcons players, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t pay attention to the others. Their current rotation puts one of their weaker servers up— it’s still powerful but nothing Komori would have difficulty picking up. The setter favors the left, where Aran waits, and one of their middle blockers is currently squaring up with Washio. 

The whistle blows, and almost immediately, the ball is in the air. It arcs, on course towards the tiny sliver of space at the corner of the court. Komori receives it with a grin, and sends it cleanly towards their setter. Rin knows the ball is most likely going to their ace, and watches as the other hitter does the run up and jumps anyways, attempting to throw some blockers off. Only one jumps, and there are still two jumping for the block. The ball makes it over anyways, but the other libero digs it, and now it’s the opposing setter’s turn. 

Rin readies his hands near his chest, elbow pointed out at the sides, fingers curled. Since the setter favors the left, he reasons that would be the more obvious option but he has a feeling that they would go for the exact opposite. Rin signals to the right and for Washio to block the line shot and for the other middle blocker to bunch in that direction when the play happens. He then turns to face Aran, giving the illusion that he thinks it’s going left. When the opposing spiker jumps, so do the blockers. Because of height, the spiker reaches the apex of his jump faster. Rin smirks, maintaining eye contact with Aran. Out of the corner of his eye, as he sees a hand approach the contact point, Rin twists his torso, fingers spread, and directly faces the trajectory of the ball. 

Force slams against his hands once, then hits the taraflex floors on the other side of the net. 

His grin widens, the whistle blows, and commotion erupts on their side of the courts. 

Aran smiles and tells him he’s nasty, to which Rin just says they both already knew that, high fives him under the net, and then they both turn towards their respective teams. 

Rin receives heavy thumps on the back, gets his hair messed up a little, and gets carried along the current of celebration. He’s too wrapped up in adrenaline and elation and the cacophony of bodies surrounding him, so he sticks his head out to the side to catch a breather, and just notices the Onigiri Miya stand mere meters away, having been too caught up in the grueling five set game to glance at his surroundings before. 

Something in his chest lurches, and it feels like free falling with no end in sight. 

If his heartstrings had previously stretched across kilometers, it was now reduced to the width of the court, close enough to chase. 

But Rintarou gets swept away and pushed towards the locker rooms, and his chance falls away

* * *

He’s never changed faster in his life, jacket half on, haphazardly folding down around his elbows, and turns to wave his confused teammates goodbye as he pushes the door open with his back. He doesn’t run, but it’s a close thing as he walks quickly with long strides back towards the court entrance. 

The crowd has mostly filtered out by now, only a few people standing around. The court is empty, and the bright stadium lights bear down as ruthlessly as always. Courtside is empty too, save for the lone stand, mostly disassembled by now, and one man. Two, if Rin counts himself. As he nears, he slows down his pace, stuffs his hands deep into his sweatpant pockets, and alternates between clenching them and unclenching. He hadn’t planned anything to say, so there is nothing to rehearse to himself. This means there is nothing to get right, but everything to get wrong. But he has a need to be here, so he can’t back out now. 

He stops a couple paces away, unsure of how close he can be. Osamu’s back faces Rin, who watches the planes of his shoulders work as he folds a table. The space between them feels as vast as ever, despite the proximity, and he wants nothing more than to close the distance. 

When Osamu turns and catches sight of him, they both go still, eyes unblinking, drinking the other in. 

Rin is the first to speak and the first to break away, averting his gaze to look to the side. 

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Sunarin,” Osamu breathes. 

Something like hope flares up when Rin hears the old nickname. He says, “Can we talk later? I can help you clean up here.”

“Sure.”

They work in silence, except for the occasional instruction from Osamu. Rin folds a banner and packs things into boxes like its tetris. When the space is cleared, they load the boxes onto the flat hand truck and rest the folding tables against the wall for the venue to collect back. Rin shifts nervously, left with nothing else to do. 

Osamu offers a small smile and says, “C’mon, we gotta take these to the car,” gesturing at the boxes. 

Rin nods, and falls into step besides Osamu as the other pulls the hand truck behind him. 

Heading towards the exit that leads to the parking lot, Rin swims in his thoughts again. He thinks of things he wants to say, and their possible outcomes. He thinks he’s come pretty far— he hasn’t been told to fuck off yet, which is really all that he could ask for. But he could still be rejected mercilessly, and while he probably deserves some of that, he slouches further into himself at the thought.

As they reach the car, Osamu unlocks the backseat doors, and they load the boxes in. Rin is careful not to accidentally brush hands or touch when reaching for boxes, too unsure of what is acceptable of him now. After the boxes sit snugly in place, they shut the doors. Osamu moves towards the door on the drivers side, and glances at Rin. 

“Y’can come in, I’ll give ya a ride,” he says. 

Rin’s a little surprised, he didn’t expect to make it so far, and was fully prepared to stall until he poured his heart out in the parking lot. He opens the door and slides into the passenger seat, at the same time Osamu gets into the driver's seat. 

“Where to?” Osamu asks. 

“Shibuya.”

“Ya say that like I know where I’m going. Here,” he says, tossing his phone to Rin who catches it reflexively, with ease. 

He looks down at the phone in his hands and unlocks it without difficulty, passcode still 960125, Rin’s own birthday. The lock screen image has changed, but the rest of it feels familiar. He inputs his address into the GPS and inserts the phone into the holder on the dash. Osamu hums in thanks and begins to navigate out of the parking lot.

They emerge into the afternoon, pulling onto the street that leads them towards the Nozomi Bridge. Rin looks at the passing scenery and fiddles with his phone, not wanting to make any awkward small talk. It’s only a sixteen minute drive, not immensely long or anything. As they come onto the Metropolitan Expressway, Osamu lets the windows down a little, and the wind is more pronounced, rushing by and ruffling the top of Rin’s hair. He lets out an exhale, lets it dissipate along with the air whistling past. He knows he should say something, but doesn’t know _how_ to say something without invoking the very real possibility of a car accident. 

But the more he thinks about it, the more he tries to think _around_ it, only makes the need to say it bubble up more and more, until it spills from his mouth. 

“I love _ya_ too, you know,” Rintarou blurts. 

To his credit, Osamu doesn’t jerk the steering wheel, nor does he take his eyes off the road. The only indication he’s heard it at all is the initial shock of his expression, the widening of his eyes, the raise of his eyebrows, and the tightening of his grip on the wheel. Rin wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t already watching him steadily. 

A shaky laugh erupts. “Sunarin, ya can’t jus’ say things like that,” he says. 

“I’m serious.”

“I was too, that night,” Osamu smiles, sad and genuine. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean we can be together, Rin. Our other priorities ended up tearing us apart.”

Rintarou can’t really argue with those statements, but he can still fight, because this time, he won’t let go. Before he can say anything, Osamu starts again.

“We both made choices Rin, it’s not your fault, nor is it mine.” He sounds so melancholy that Rin wants to kiss it out of him. 

“We have other choices, ‘Samu. I’d choose this, I’d choose to try again and again, for as long as it takes, for as long as you’ll allow,” Rin says softly. And it’s true, as long as the sun rises and sets, as long as the Skytree lights up at night, he knows he’d choose this. 

The familiar buildings of Omotesando roll by outside, and they are almost home. 

“Okay,” Osamu agrees. “I’d like that.”

A hand is offered across the center console, and Rin bridges the gap between them. Their fingers interlock, gripping surely. 

“Ya know, you were scary today. Couldn’t keep my eyes off of ya, that torso sure is somethin’.”

“Well, this torso is all yours, is what it is.”

“Dude, stop.”

“Why? Hm, _dude_.” 

They pull up to the entrance of Rin’s apartment building, it’s a 4 story thing, with an abundance of plants on either sides of the walkway, and a small coffee shop tucked into the corner.

“Parking is up ahead. Come upstairs,” Rin says. “You can drive back later.”

Osamu slides into the space marked 3F, Rin’s apartment number. They untangle their hands to unbuckle their seatbelts and exit the car. 

“Of course,” Osamu answers. 

* * *

Rintarou opens his eyes to his alarm, meeting the brightness of morning, and immediately shuts them again. He curls around the solid warmth next to him, smushing his face further into fabric, and tightening his arms. He feels Osamu shifting around in the limited space he has, and then the exhale of air onto his face. Rin still refuses to open his eyes, he’s sure it’s still too early. There’s more shifting, and then the feeling of a butterfly kiss against his neck, only to be replaced by a wet and loud raspberry. 

He opens his eyes for the second time, brow raised as he looks at Osamu who grins at him, lazy and triumphant. 

“Morning, Rinrin.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe so,” Osamu agrees. 

“Sleep. I’m going back to sleep. Breakfast later,” Rin says, and tucks himself back into place, but does not close his eyes.

His surroundings are painted in the yellow and orange hues of sunlight, hitting the walls and highlighting Osamu’s form and the planes of his face. 

Rintarou’s heartstrings are laid out across all six hundred square feet of this apartment, and they all lead back to this bed, and back to Miya Osamu.

**Author's Note:**

> hello !! thank you for reading  
> title is half taken from [rm- tokyo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXVUTAOravs)  
> catch me on twitter [@yoruuss](https://twitter.com/YORUUSS)


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